Pancakes
by nrynmrth
Summary: A progression of birthdays, or Alex's obsession with pancakes. Oneshot, slightly bizarre. For SpyFest Revival's February prompt.
A/N: A quick little oneshot for SpyFest Revival's February prompt, courtesy of the wonderful _wolfern_. You should all check out the new prompts on the forum - it might be a bit late for the February one, but March is up already!

A little bizarre and written without any real proofreading. You have been warned. That said, enjoy, and happy leap year!

Disclaimer: I wish.

* * *

Alex patters down the stairs of the spacious Chelsea home, a bright smile on his six-year-old face. Ian is in the kitchen making pancakes, but he leaves the stove to rush over to his nephew and crouch before him.

"Happy birthday, Alex." Ian smiles fondly, ruffling the boy's hair.

Alex doesn't bother responding, simply wrapping his arms around his uncle tightly. He doesn't see the wince spread across his uncle's face as his bruises complain, nor does he hear the slight gasp that Ian can't hold in as the slices on his back twinge. Alex simply delights in the fact that Ian is here, with him, solid and real like he hasn't been in weeks. Ian, for his part, ignores the pain and holds his nephew closer. Two sets of identical brown eyes flutter closed, relishing each other's company.

* * *

Two years later, Ian is gone. A last minute business trip, he had told Alex, kneeling before the almost-eight-year-old. Alex nods, silent, resigned. He's become used to the fact that Ian is rarely home, no matter how much he wishes his uncle would stay.

He's not alone in the house, but he thinks he might as well be – there's a woman (Jack, Ian had called her), but Alex doesn't know her. He's not sure he wants to – actually, he knows he doesn't. He doesn't want this strange red-haired girl with a foreign accent and freckles, he wants blond hair and brown eyes so like his own that he might as well be staring into a mirror. He wants _Ian_.

He sighs, kicking his feet a little on his chair in the kitchen. Jack is making pancakes, but Alex knows they won't be as good as Ian's (if only because Jack's not Ian). The pancakes are finished and they eat in silence, both uncomfortably aware of the empty chair between them.

* * *

Alex's tenth birthday is unique – he's celebrating it with _two_ people. Jack is there as she has been for over two years, her sunny smile bright as she greets Alex. He calls back cheerfully, any animosity between them gone (he forgave her the moment she taught him to light a firecracker). Ian is there too, his smile more restrained than Jack's but no less delighted. There are pancakes, of course, and butter and syrup and laughter – the sounds of a family, whole at last.

* * *

Fourteen elapses in silence. The house feels empty, as though there is something missing – or some _one_. The two that remain are still coming to terms with the fact that the third is not coming back, not ever, and they are far too preoccupied with the thought of a future that may not exist anymore to celebrate. For the first time, February 13th passes without pancakes.

* * *

Sixteen dawns bright and sunny, not that Alex can see it. As a matter of fact, he hasn't seen the sun in two months – hasn't seen anything besides the dank cell he occupies.

 _Happy birthday to me,_ he thinks wryly, exhaling.

His chains dig into his wrists, chafing the already raw skin there (he hopes the marks won't scar, because he's not sure he can explain them away – what normal sixteen year old has ligature marks on his wrists and ankles?), and his body aches all over. They have not broken his spirit (not yet, anyway) and Alex is strangely proud to have lasted so long. He can see the surprise each time his torturers enter, the grudging respect that enters their eyes as he suffers in silence, and it warms him slightly, to know that he is good at his (very, very illegal) job. He allows himself a smile that is more grimace than grin, before his tormenters enter his cell once more.

A week later, MI6 finds him, and he distantly thinks through the haze of pain that this is the best belated birthday present he's ever had. He manages to share this with the SAS soldier he's leaning on, but he collapses before he can register the shocked laugh that is more startled than amused. He slips willingly into the darkness.

* * *

 _Eighteen_ , Alex thinks, staring at the glass in his hand. It is nearly empty, little more than a few drops of alcohol remaining. It is not his first foray into the depths of hard liquor, but it is his first _legal_ drink as a citizen of Great Britain, and he feels that this moment should have some significance. A scoff emerges from his throat, a sharp exhale that is both cynical and ironic. He lost all semblance of normality the day he jumped out of a window to reach his uncle's office.

The pub is nearly empty, he notes as he glances around, quiet save for those like him, those with the same haunted looks in their eyes – those who have seen the realities of the world and found it sadly wanting. Those who know more of death than any living creature should.

He knocks the remaining amber liquid back with a sigh, welcoming the familiar burn. Setting the glass on the pub counter, he nods to the bartender and leaves, his black coat thrown carelessly over his shoulders as he steps out into the snowy evening. The alcohol has left him in an introspective mood, recalling memories he'd rather forget – memories of happier times, of days in which the most important thing was that the three of them were together, of gifts and food and family.

It is at the thought of food that Alex realises, with some surprise, that he is _hungry._ His stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten anything but hospital food for nigh on two weeks, and that if it doesn't get some real food now, he'll be sorry. Alex laughs slightly at how normal his body's reaction is – at how _human_ he feels, a far cry from the apathy he felt earlier. He is spontaneous and real and beautifully _alive_ , and it thrills him. On the spur of the moment, he changes course, his aimless wandering becoming purposeful. Ten minutes later, his coat is hung neatly beside the door to his house and the smell of pancakes fills the air.

* * *

I told you it was quick. Alex has a pancake obsession now. Deal with it. Before you go, remember that I love reviews almost as much as my mom's pancakes. Unfortunately, pancakes are unavailable right now, because my mom is busy (cries). Reviews will cheer me up...

-nrynmrth


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